


Friday Night Mutants

by Butterynutjob



Category: 30 Rock, X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Attempt at Humor, Crack, Emma Frost HBIC, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, M/M, Some people are a bit OOC, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterynutjob/pseuds/Butterynutjob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is the head writer for a weekly live comedy sketch show created by and for mutants. His life is going terribly: he's overworked, sleep-deprived, and underfed, and can't seem to figure out how to break-up with his not-quite-boyfriend Logan.</p><p>The last thing he needs is a greedy new boss who insists that Charles recruit the notoriously difficult to work with movie star, Erik Lehnsherr. </p><p>(30 Rock pastiche)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something funny and a little ridiculous. It starts very similarly to the television show 30 Rock, but the plot takes off in another direction completely after the first two chapters. Contains ableist and possibly offensive language. Characters may be a little OOC because they are blended with the counterparts on 30 Rock. I expect to update about once a week, no particular schedule.

“Charles, they want you on the fiftieth floor,” Angel said from the doorway of Charles’s tiny and cluttered office on the twenty-eighth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza.

Charles had been deeply scrutinizing the word document open on his computer to see where he could squeeze a couple more jokes in. “What?” he said irritably. 

“There’s a new guy, or something. They want to talk to you.”

Charles raised his head wearily and looked at Angel. “‘They’?” he asked in exasperation. “Do you mean Gary?”

She shrugged. She was wearing a black halter top, attire which was completely inappropriate for work. Charles didn’t have it in him to have that talk with her today, though. Maybe tomorrow. 

“Yeah, they want you to go up there.” She looked at him guilelessly.

“Well, why didn’t _they_ call—” Charles looked at his desk phone and saw it off the hook, and had a vague recollection of irritably knocking it over when the damn thing wouldn’t stop ringing earlier. He sighed. “Well. Since I’ve lost my focus anyway.” He stood up wearily.

“Where’s Moira?” Charles asked Angel as he walked through the writers’ room and into the hall. She shrugged and sat down on the couch with her cell phone in her hand. 

“Really pulling your weight,” he muttered, and walked smack into Moira. 

“Charles!” The show’s stage manager looked harried, as usual. Her brown hair was in a messy ponytail and she carried a clipboard and a walkie-talkie. “They want you upstairs.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been hearing,” Charles said dryly. “Can you walk with me? How is the Donald Trump sketch coming?”

“Oh, it’s—” she leaped to the side as a delivery boy literally skateboarded down the hallway between them. “It’s fine, except Raven doesn’t want to do it.”

Charles rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get a headache, which was a common side-effect of the telepathic suppressants he took. “Of course she doesn’t. Did she say why?”

“She says any portrayal of him is helping his campaign.”

“But I told her—” Fourteen stormtroopers about four feet high filed past them, followed by an even smaller version of Darth Vader. Charles frowned as he watched them go by. “Little Vader didn’t get cut? I thought we were worried about offending little people?”

“I—I thought it did get cut,” Moira said, frantically flipping through papers on her clipboard. They walked into the elevator together, only to be stopped a tall young man in glasses and a page uniform who seemed to be sprouting blue hair out of his face.

“Uh, are you Charles Xavier?” he asked urgently.

“Yes?” Charles said, holding the elevator door. _It must be his first day,_ he thought. Everyone knew Charles.

“They want you on the fiftieth floor,” he blurted, before his eyes widened and he put a hand to his cheek. “Oh, God, am I turning blue?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Charles said, feeling sympathetic for the new page. “A minor slip-up. We’re all mutants here anyway. Well, most most of us,” he amended, with an apologetic smile at Moira. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Moira said, pushing the door to close the elevator doors in front of his relieved (but blue and slightly furry) face.

Charles let out a big sigh and slumped against the wall. “Is it sad that riding the elevator is the most relaxing part of my day?” he asked Moira rhetorically. 

She looked up at him and seemed to really see him for the first time that day. “It’s been a rough week,” she said sympathetically. “But after next week, we both get time off.”

Charles nodded glumly. He actually wasn’t much looking forward to time off. He had been putting off breaking up with his not-quite-boyfriend Logan for too long and he had promised himself (and Raven and Moira) that he would definitely do it by the end of the show’s winter break. He was sure he could make it stick this time. And if not during the winter break, definitely by President’s Day. 

“You’ll get to spend some time with your family,” he said to Moira with a wan smile. 

“Yes,” she agreed. “Joe will disappear to the basement to write and I will take care of the kids.” She sighed and looked depressed. Moira had four children under ten years old who were, at best, a handful. At worst they were demons incarnate, based on some of the stories Moira told. 

Charles had to chuckle, looking at her. “I guess we are in the best possible world,” he said softly. 

Moira smiled at him and reached over to squeeze his shoulder, letting go just as the elevator door opened. 

The fiftieth floor was...unrecognizable. It was a construction zone, full of dust and plastic and drop-cloths and workers in yellow hardhats. Coughing, Charles and Moira tried to scoot around the mess in front of them to go to Gary’s office. 

But Gary’s office was—gone. There was no door. There were no walls. It was as if the whole of the fiftieth floor were being transformed into one big office. 

“Gary?” Moira said timidly into the space. 

“Gary’s dead.” The words came from behind them, and when they turned Charles saw that they had been spoken by a blonde woman wearing an impeccably tailored white suit. “At least, I want you to think of him that way.” She offered a hand to Moira and then Charles. “I’m Emma Frost. And you are?”

“Moira MacTaggert, stage manager of _The Mutant Show,_ ” Moira said slowly, frowning slightly. 

“Charles Xavier, head writer of TMS,” Charles said impatiently. “But you know that, because you summoned us. Who are _you_?”

Frost smiled. “I’m the new director of programming for NBC, Comcast, Universal, and K-Mart.”

Moira jerked in confusion. “NBC owns K-Mart?” she asked Charles. 

“No,” Frost said coolly. “So why are you two dressed like it does?”

Charles’ jaw dropped at the rude comment. Frost gave him a wider smile, and turned to lead them to a desk in the corner of the giant room they were in. She indicated the two chairs on one side of the desk and she sat on the other. 

Charles and Moira sank down significantly lower in their seats than they expected to, which meant they had to look up to Emma Frost, who sat in her chair like it was a throne. _Intimidation tactic,_ Charles thought. 

“Yes,” she said to him, her smile fading. “And you are also correct that I am making the entire fiftieth floor into my office.”

Charles blinked several times in rapid succession. Had he been projecting? That had never happened before when he was on suppressants, but one of the side effects of suppressants was not being aware of when his own mind was being read…”You’re a telepath,” he breathed. He immediately felt angry. “And reading my mind is a gross violation of The Mutant Act! I—”

Frost gave him an unimpressed look. “Relax, sugar. I thought you of all people would be a little understanding of...minor slip-ups.” 

Charles hesitated with his mouth open. He shut his mouth and swallowed before replying. “I take suppressants so ‘slip-ups’ don’t happen,” he finally said, pointedly. 

Frost arched her exquisitely manicured eyebrows at him. “That’s pathetic.” she paused briefly, long enough for Charles to get red in the face but not long enough for him to formulate a response. “But I didn’t bring you here to berate you. I’m going to cut to the chase: I’ve reviewed the ratings and viewership of _The Mutant Show_ , and I think we could do more to draw in genotypical viewers.”

“The show isn’t made for genotypical people,” Moira said loyally, considering she was baseline human herself. “It’s made for mutants. I can say mutants, right?” she said anxiously, turning to Charles. 

He waved away her concerns and looked at Frost in surprise. “That—you would want to do that? But you’re a mutant!” 

“I’m a businessperson,” she said evenly. “And something has to pay for all the upgrades I’m making to my office.” She waved her hand to indicate the construction all around them and smiled as if it were a private joke between them. 

“Okay,” Charles said carefully. He realized that he couldn’t dig his heels in and object to change simply because it was change; and he had wanted to make the show more inclusive for a while, anyway. It was only because his workload was so heavy that he hadn’t pushed harder for more changes. 

“I have taken the liberty of setting up a lunch date for you with a potential new cast member,” Frost said, passing Charles a slip of paper across the desk. “This man appeals to both mutants and non-mutants, and that translates to greater viewership, which means more advertising dollars. Which means...I can afford an office that appropriately conveys my status.” She smiled benignly at Charles. 

Charles pushed down his irritation. This Emma Frost was his new boss, and they were going to have to work together; he would find something in her to appreciate. “That’s sounds reasonable,” Charles said. “When is this lunch, and who am I meeting with?”

“Lunchtime today. Erik Lehnsherr.”

Charles and Moira both looked at each other in confusion. “Erik Lehnsherr? The activist?” Charles asked hesitantly. 

“Erik Lehnsherr the _actor_ vist,” Frost corrected him. “He is one of the top-grossing action movie stars of last year. His charisma is amazing. He might even double your viewership.”

“But he’s not a comedian,” Charles said urgently. Charles was vaguely familiar with the man; he remembered that Lehnsherr was attractive and intense and and was always being mentioned in the news because of some scandal or another. “TMS is a comedy; why would you—”

“He’s insane,” Moira whispered. “Did you hear that he had a temper tantrum on the set of Angry Father 3 because none of the crew were mutants and turned a refrigerator inside out?”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Charles said impatiently. “But still, I really doubt—”

Frost looked thoughtful. “It does sound like him, actually.” She smiled at Charles again. “He’s expensive, of course. We may have to make some other cuts to afford him.” She smiled at Moira.

Charles snapped his mouth shut and looked at Frost in horror. “So, _today,_ a few hours before TMS airs live—as it always does on Friday nights—you want me to have lunch with an unstable man the the network can’t even afford to hire? What if you gave up some of your precious office renovation? Maybe you could afford him then,” Charles said bitterly.

Frost stood up, prompting Charles and Moira to stand also. “I like you, Charles. Lehnsherr will like you too. I look forward to hearing what he says to the job offer. Meet him at Bâtard at twelve-thirty.”

Charles’ jaw dropped. “I’m not dressed for Bâtard!” he protested. 

“You are dressed for Burger King; would you rather eat there?” Frost asked pleasantly. “Find a suit.” She sat down and opened the laptop on her desk.

“You could ask wardrobe?” Moira said.

Charles made a noise of frustration that was half a growl. Frost blinked at him in false surprise, as if he had damaged her delicate sensibilities. “Come on, Moira,” Charles snapped. 

“Actually, Moira, if you could remain, I’d like to talk with you for a moment,” Frost said with same chilly pleasantness that she said everything. 

“I’ll catch up,” Moira promised Charles. “Hey, Sarkozy might fit you?”

Charles blinked before he remembered that he was supposed to get better clothes. “Right, Sarkozy,” he said weakly. 

He got in the elevator and rubbed his pounding head. What a day this was turning out to be. 

**

“Sarkozy?” Warren from wardrobe rolled his eyes. “That is _so_ five years ago. But yes, I have it.”

“Great,” Charles said unenthusiastically. He stepped into the changing room when Warren handed him the suit. “I have to meet this potential new cast member for a lunch date,” he explained through the curtain. “Some jerk with a temper, apparently, and the new director of programming—Frost, Emma Frost, by the way, there really should be a memo or something—” 

“Does it fit?” Warren asked pointedly. 

Charles came out of the dressing room. “Well, it’s a little tight.”

“That’s Sarkozy for you,” Warren said dismissively. 

Charles turned to leave and saw his sister Raven standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with horror. “Did you say potential new cast member?” she whispered. 

Charles stomach dropped. “Oh, no! I mean, yes, I said that, but it’s not going to happen,” Charles said quickly. Raven’s confidence level varied wildly and Charles secretly suspected that it was working in television that had done that to her; she had been more confident as a teenager. He gave her a tight hug and kissed the side of her head. “You are the star of TMS, Raven, nobody will take that from you.”

He saw Emma Frost over Charles’ shoulder and pulled away from Raven immediately and cleared his throat, pushing Raven into turning around. “Emma Frost, I’d like to introduce you to the star of _The Mutant Show,_ Raven Darkholme. Raven, Emma is the new director of programming.”

“Oh!” Raven said, sounding immensely pleased by the change, although Charles could feel that she took the news as an unpleasant shock even through his telepathic suppressants. “It’s wonderful to meet you!”

Frost smiled coldly at Raven. “How old are you?” she asked. 

Raven’s jaw dropped. “Twenty-five,” she whispered, with a swallow. “Why?”

Frost shrugged. “No reason.” She turned to Charles. “That’s how you should dress everyday,” she said approvingly. 

Charles glared at her until she smirked and sauntered away. He kissed his sister on the cheek with a whispered apology and stalked off to his lunch date. Hopefully Lehnsherr would turn down the job quickly and he would be back at work—and back in his comfortable clothes—within the hour. 

**

The restaurant was _very_ nice and Charles tugged at his pants uncomfortably. Apparently Sarkozy didn’t have quite as ample an ass as Charles. 

He was a little surprised to hear from the maitre d that Mr. Lehnsherr was already seated. _Apparently one can be insane _and_ punctual,_ Charles thought. When he caught sight of the seated man, his breath caught in his throat and he was glad Lehnsherr wasn’t looking at him. The man was far more gorgeous in person than he looked on movie posters and he wore the suit like it belonged on him. Charles watched him order something in effortless French from the server and suddenly felt nervous. This was not the man he had been led to expect. 

He forced himself to breathe and walk normally. Lehnsherr glanced up at him and raised his eyebrows slightly. “Erik Lehnsherr?” he asked. “I mean, sorry, obviously you are, I mean, I’m Charles Xavier.” 

Lehnsherr stood, his eyebrows jumping even higher. “Emma sent you?” He absentmindedly indicated the seat across from him and Charles sat down carefully, considering how tight the bum of his pants were. 

“Yes?” Charles said a little uncertainly, since Lehnsherr was giving him an oddly intense look. “Were you expecting—someone else?”

“Mmm,” Lehnsherr said. He sat down as well, seeming aloof and a little stiff. “I thought I would be meeting with the director of programming, Emma Frost.”

“Ah.” Charles could understand why he would disappoint if the man had been expecting a blonde bombshell. “Unfortunately for you, she asked me to come.”

“Yes,” Lehnsherr said. He said nothing else for a few moments and just stared at Charles like he was trying to see through him, a slight frown on his forehead. 

“Well,” Charles said, clearing his throat, after an awkward twenty seconds or so of being stared at. Feeling like he was starting to get quite warm, he said briskly, “Might as well cut to the chase. I am the head writer for _The Mutant Show,_ a program I am sure you are familiar with—”

“Oh yes,” Lehnsherr said, an unpleasant smile on his face. “I’m familiar. I don’t watch it, though, because I’ve very little desire to see my people reduced to being the punchline of jokes.”

Charles blinked several times and his mouth opened in shock. “Your people—punchline? What? _The Mutant Show_ is not—”

“It’s minstrelsy,” Lehnsherr said loudly, contempt in his voice. “It’s blatantly mutantist. A tradition that goes back to circuses, and freak shows—”

“Now wait a moment—” Charles started to say.

“You baseline humans think that mutants are only good for entertainment,” he finished with a sneer. 

It was on the tip of Charles’ tongue to correct Erik’s incorrect assumption about him, but he decided to keep the information to himself for the time being. “I’ll have you know that TMS has a predominantly mutant cast and crew, Mr. Lehnsherr. And we make it a point not to perpetuate negative stereotypes about mutants.”

“They have free reign to use their abilities?” the man across from him asked, looking at Charles shrewdly. 

“Well, to the extent permitted by law, yes,” Charles admitted, feeling his ears go red. The Mutant Act prevented mutants from using abilities that ‘gave them an unfair advantage’ at work. The law had been passed hastily in the wake of terrorist action a few years before and the vague wording had been the cause of several recent lawsuits. 

“So: no, then,” Lehnsherr said. His face grew stony and the utensils on the table began to quiver. 

Charles opened his mouth to argue further and realized: maybe this was the out he needed. Because before their order had even been taken, he could see that Erik Lehnsherr would be far more trouble than he was worth as a cast member of _The Mutant Show._

Charles inclined his head, indicating that he was conceding defeat. “I can understand why the show upsets you. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” 

Lehnsherr blinked at him and the utensils stopped moving. “So you’re not staying for lunch?” he asked.

Charles realized that lunch would be on NBC’s tab, and it would be very inappropriate for him to leave before they had even ordered when the man opposite him expected a meal. On the other hand, he did need to get back...the show tended to go off the rails when he wasn’t there. “I can arrange to have your meal taken care of,” he offered, standing up and looking at his watch. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s best,” Lehnsherr said. He looked so dejected about it that Charles felt overcome with guilt. 

“I mean…” Charles sat down. “Unless you want me to stay?” He was sure his confusion showed in his voice.

Lehnsherr smiled as Charles sat down again. He cleared his throat and frowned momentarily. “Are you human?” he abruptly asked. 

“What? Of course I’m human,” Charles said, feeling his stomach tighten with discomfort. He caught the eye of their server across the room and raised an eyebrow pointedly at her. 

“I mean, are you a mutant?” Erik asked irritably. “Because you are doing a good job of passing.”

Charles felt his cheeks go hot. “Excuse me? Are you saying that I’m trying to pass as genotypical because I don’t have any visible mutations? _You_ don’t have any visible mutations!”

Erik eyed him shrewdly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Charles raised his chin. “Yes, I am in fact a mutant—” he said and immediately lowered his voice when the server came close. He smiled at her and spoke in his most charming voice. “Unfortunately I need to go now, but I’d like to leave my credit card information with you so that Mr. Lehnsherr’s meal is taken care of. May I do that?”

The server looked hesitant; no doubt it was not a typical request. Before she could say anything, Lehnsherr interrupted. “Where do you have to go?”

Charles blinked at Lehnsherr. “Back to work,” he said. “You know TMS is live every Friday night, right?”

“Mmm, I didn’t,” Lehnsherr said. He leaned forward, seemingly suddenly more interested. “What is your role?”

“I’ll let you guys talk it through a bit more,” the server said quickly, and hastily disappeared. 

“But I—” Charles started to say, belatedly reaching a hand towards her. 

“I haven’t seen you on the show,” Lehnsherr said. His voice had changed, somehow; he had somehow gained a British accent and his voice was lower and smoother. 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t watch the show?”

Erik smiled slowly, his eyes never leaving Charles’ face. “I lied. Of course I watch it. It has to do with mutants.”

Charles snorted. “Then you know we don’t reduce mutants to punchlines.”

Erik shrugged, an easy, casual gesture. He looked down at his place setting and absent-mindedly caressed his butter knife with his thumb. “Not all the time, no.”

“Not all the time?” Charles couldn’t tell if he was more annoyed at Lehnsherr or at himself for feeling attracted to Lehnsherr. And it was doubly annoying that Lehnsherr had clearly decided to turn on the charm once Charles admitted to be a mutant; that much would have been obvious even if Charles had not been a mind-reader. 

“What do you for the show?” Lehnsherr asked, lifting his eyes to meet Charles’.

 _Two can play at this game,_ Charles thought. He smiled at Lehnsherr. “That’s not what you really want to know,” he said sweetly. “You want to know what it will take to get me in bed.”

Lehnsherr’s lips parted and his pupils widened. “So you’re a telepath,” he murmured. 

Charles smirked. “It doesn’t take a telepath to read your intentions, my friend,” he said. He assumed an expression of regret. “Unfortunately, if you intend to accept the job I’m offering you, your hopes will not, ah, come to fruition. There is a strict no-fraternization rule on _The Mutant Show_.” It was a half-truth. There were rules about fraternization in the employee guidebook, true, but they were not really taken seriously unless one person of the couple was in a position of authority over the other. And since that actually would be the case, Charles wasn’t actually lying. 

Lehnsherr looked at him thoughtfully. “You don’t want me to join the cast, do you?”

Charles felt put on the spot. _He_ was supposed to be the telepath, dammit! He didn’t want to insult the man, but he also thought that this might be a way to get the man to turn the gig down. “I—um, well, I don’t think—”

The server reappeared. “Have you decided?” she asked brightly. 

_Saved!_ Charles thought gratefully. He opened his mouth to speak to the server, but Lehnsherr beat him to it.

“What percentage of the staff here are mutants?” 

Her eyes (and Charles’s) widened. “I’m, um, I’m not really sure?” she said desperately. 

Lehnsherr looked extremely displeased. “Are there _any_ mutants employed here?”

“I—I—think we have a mutant dishwasher,” she said uncertainly. 

“A _dishwasher_?” Lehnsherr raised his voice. “Do you think that’s an acceptable level of representation?”

“I’m going to go get my manager,” the server said, her face pale. She backed away from their table and nearly tripped over herself in her haste to get away. 

“Erik,” Charles said in a soft but urgent tone. “There is no need to make a scene. It’s alright.”

“It is most certainly _not_ —” Erik started to say, but he shut his mouth when Charles put his hand on top of Erik’s. Erik looked at Charles and seemed to melt a little. “Say my name again,” he asked. 

Charles blinked because the change in Erik’s demeanor had been so abrupt that it was disconcerting. “Erik?” he said, a question. 

Erik smiled, a soft, genuine expression. “I want to know more about you, Charles Xavier,” he said, again in his rich velvety voice. “I want to know about your mutation and what you do for _The Mutant Show_ and what your dreams are. Let’s get out of this...this” he waved his hand dismissively in the air and sneered the next word “— _baseline_ establishment and have a drink together.”

Charles wished he had more than water in his glass at the table. Erik (when had he started thinking of him as _Erik_?) was ridiculously attractive, but he also had mercurial mood swings and having a drink with him would probably be a very bad idea. 

Charles compromised with himself. Maybe he could have _one_ drink with the man, if he did what Charles hoped he would. Charles bit his lip in feigned consternation. “I wish I could, but if we’re going to be working together—”

“I decline your job offer,” Erik said smoothly. He reached for Charles’ hand and stroked it much as he had been stroking his butter knife earlier, and then looked up at Charles with soulful eyes and transparent motives. “Now, will you have a drink with me?”

 _Mission accomplished._ Charles allowed himself a small victorious smile. “I do have to get back to work, but I suppose one drink couldn’t hurt,” he said, licking his lips deliberately. Because why not flirt? Erik Lehnsherr was a movie star, and Charles currently had his attention. Erik would probably lose interest in Charles the next time an attractive person walked by, Charles reasoned. And he could spare thirty minutes from his job. It would be like a little vacation, and god knew he didn’t get enough of those. 

“Excellent.” Erik’s smile was wide and genuine. Charles found it very charming, but he could also see why Lehnsherr played so many ‘villain’ roles in films. “I know the perfect place.”


	2. Sister Mary's

Emma walked into what she had been led to believe was the writers’ room, and found it to have more resemblance to a zoo than to any workplace she’d ever been in before. There was an anxious-looking blue beast-like man busting out of a page’s uniform speaking to an equally blue but far more agitated female creature of some kind. At the same time, three men were arguing about some kind of rump and passing back and forth several tribbles (at least as far as Emma could determine). To complete the manic vibe, three child-sized stormtroopers were helping each other climb up onto a counter in the corner of the room. The one calm thing in the room seemed to be a very scantily-clad young woman with dark hair who was lounging on a couch, serenely looking at her phone.

“What is going on here?” Emma said, telepathically making sure her voice carried. 

Every head in the room turned towards her. “Who are you?” a woman Emma hadn’t noticed before asked. Two tiny stormtroopers toppled to the ground, breaking the silence. 

Emma took a deep breath. “I’m Emma Frost, the new director of programming for NBC, Comcast, Universal and the Brooklyn Zoo.”

“NBC owns the Brooklyn Zoo?” It was one of the tribble-fighters. 

“No, so why does this room make me feel like it does?” Emma said tartly. _The K-Mart line was better,_ she thought. 

“Nobody knows where Charles is!” the blue woman said angrily, throwing her arms up and nearly hitting the furry blue page. “Or Moira! They’re the ones who tell us which toupee to use, and what the ending of the stormtrooper skit is supposed to be, and they _abandoned_ us!”

Emma held her hands up placatingly. “I know where both Charles and Moira are, and Charles will be back soon. In the meantime, tell me what decisions need to be made, and I will make them.”

Everyone in the room looked at each other for a moment, then they all descended on her at once, a cacophonous mass. A golden toupee assortment (“ah, not tribbles after all,” Emma realized) was forced upon her and she picked one at random. She then sent the furry blue page to get food for the stormtroopers once she discovered that their concern was not being tall enough to reach the assortment of food made available for cast members. 

That left Raven Darkholme, who was somehow blond and beige-skinned again. “Where is Charles?” Raven asked, in a deceptively sweet voice compared to the emotions she was feeling.

“Charles is currently doing something that will relieve a significant burden for you,” Emma said soothingly. She glanced at her watch with a brief frown. “Although I did expect him to be back by now.”

“Hiring a new cast member is relieving a significant burden for me?” Raven shrieked. “I can be anyone you want me to be. What do you want, Tom Cruise?” The shapeshifter assumed the form of the Top Gun star. “Angela Bassett? Leonardo diCaprio? Weird Al Yankovic?” As she said each name, she assumed the form of that individual. 

Emma let her expression grow more serious. “We both know that would be a violation of the law,” she said seriously. “The show needs a fresh face, Ms. Darkholme. It’s nothing personal.”

Raven narrowed her eyes and nodded, more thoughtful than threatening. “Fresh face,” she repeated. 

“Indeed.” Emma smiled. “I’m glad you understand.” Raven started to walk out of the room, muttering ‘fresh face’ to herself. The furry blue page trailed her anxiously. 

“Now—” Emma turned to face the people left in the room. “I would love to meet all of you properly.”

The people in the room looked at each other, with varying levels of terror. Emma sighed inwardly and turned to the least terrified person in the room. “Hello. You. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Well, I’m Armando,” the man said. “But everybody calls me Darwin.” 

“And what do you do for _The Mutant Show?_ ” Emma prompted. 

He shrugged and grinned a little. “Whatever it takes to keep me employed.” 

Emma didn’t think it was a particularly funny joke, but everyone in the room cracked up and it relieved the tension a bit. Emma smiled to show that she got the joke, too. 

Introductions were easier from there: despite his wisecrack, Emma gathered that Darwin was actually a writer for the show, along with a blond man named Alex and a petite woman with dark hair named Kitty. A red-haired man came in near the end of introductions reeking of marijuana and introduced himself as Sean. Emma crinkled her nose distastefully. _That’s another cut that will be easy to make,_ she thought to herself. 

Xavier still wasn’t back yet. She frowned at her watch as if it were responsible for the head writer’s tardiness. She had expected him to take a long lunch, but this was going on two hours. “What does Charles normally do now?” she asked the group brightly. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

**

Charles frowned at the sign. “Sister Margaret’s is a bar?” 

The place didn’t look very welcoming, and was located in a pretty unsavory part of Manhattan. 

“Sister Margaret’s is _the_ bar,” Erik corrected, holding the door open for Charles. “The bar for mutants, I mean.”

It was gloomy inside, and although the inhabitants looked battleworn and miserable, there was a certain shared emotion in the room that Charles was picking up telepathically which didn’t quite jive with what he expected to see. Despite their appearances, few of the people were intoxicated, and they were sizing Charles up as...a client?

The awareness that his suppressants were fading was superseded by his shock at what kind of bar they were at. “Erik, I don’t think this is a good place for us,” he said in a low, urgent voice. 

“Don’t worry, Charles, we’re with our own kind,” Erik said, walking up to the weaselly bartender with a smile. “Scotch, the best you’ve got, neat. Charles?”

Erik’s warm hand on his shoulder made Charles nearly jump. When his suppressants began to wear off, there was a transition period during which he couldn’t _quite_ hear other people’s thoughts, but he could a little, and it was a very annoying place to be in; it made it hard to focus, for one thing. He had noticed something very important a moment before from the minds around them, and Erik’s hand on his shoulder had made it slip out of his grasp. “Sorry, what?” Charles asked, looking at Erik with wide eyes. 

“I just wanted to know what you want to drink,” Erik asked softly. He seemed a little amused. 

“Oh, ah, whatever you’re having is fine,” Charles said, distracted because he had just found it again: the Wrong Thing in the air. He lowered his voice even as Erik solicitously led him to a seat and put a drink in his hand. “This bar is full of...assassins. Killers for hire. Mercenaries.”

Erik’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Is it?” He took a sip of his Scotch. “Hmm. Just evidence of how hard it is to get work when one has a mutation, I suppose.”

“What—I—how—what?” Charles spluttered. He took a sip of his Scotch and then another because, wow, that was good Scotch. “The people here are not mutants, Erik.”

Erik eyed Charles with thoughtfully narrowed eyes and took another sip of his drink before responding. “I’m surprised that you of all people would leap to that conclusion, Charles. Judging people on the way they look…tsk, tsk, tsk.” Erik shook his head regretfully and had another sip. 

“Don’t _patronize_ me,” Charles said, with as much disgust as he could put into his tone as possible. “I’m a telepath, and I’m telling you, nearly everyone here is looking to be paid for killing and also nobody in here is a mutant!” 

“Well, almost nobody,” said someone behind Charles. “I mean, if breaking the fourth wall is a mutant power.” 

Erik got a sour look on his face, looking up at the standing speaker. “Not now, Wade,” he said sharply. 

“Ooh, the movie star knows my name!” The speaker sat down next to Charles and draped his arm around Charles’s shoulder. “Is this one your date? He’s cute! Up for a threesome?”

“It’s not a date!” Charles shrank away from the man, clutching his Scotch to his chest like it was a safety blanket. He hadn’t had a drink in a long while, and he couldn’t remember why that was at the moment, but he liked drinking a lot and alcohol helped combat the bad ‘coming down’ feeling that his telepathic suppressants gave him.

“Alright, we’ll keep it strictly professional.” The man was wearing a mostly red costume, complete with full face mask. 

“We’re not—” Erik started to say when Wade said simultaneously, “So, who do you want dead?”

Charles narrowed his eyes pointedly at Erik, who shifted uncomfortably. 

“I told you they were assassins,” Charles said haughtily to Erik, feeling much more pleased about being right than he probably should be. 

“Just because _Wade_ is doesn’t mean they all are,” Erik said, glaring at Wade. 

“No, pretty much everyone in this bar is a mercenary for hire, ” Wade said casually, stealing Erik’s drink and trying to take a sip of it—and spilling it down his chest instead. “Damn! I really need to cut a mouth hole in this thing.”

Charles snorted in amusement. Erik was glaring at Wade even harder, if that was possible. Three metal ball bearings floated up and started circling Wade. Charles stared in fascinated admiration, realizing it must be Erik’s mutation working. 

Wade himself, unfortunately, did not seem to realize the threat. He turned to Charles, resting his head on his elbow, which was leaning on the table. “So there’s nobody you want dead, huh? Not even a little maimed?” He swatted at one of the ball bearings distractedly when it swung close to his head. 

“Well, I do have a new boss that I’m finding a little difficult to work with,” Charles admitted with a smirk. Wade nodded seriously and Charles coughed and realized he should not be joking with an _actual assassin_ about killing his boss. “I’m kidding.”

“Ow, cut it out,” Wade said, as the ball bearings grew little spikes and started bouncing off of Wade’s head. “So where’s this boss?” 

Charles was feeling extremely amused by the ball bearing situation, and more than a little drunk. “30 Rockefeller Plaza. Wait, no. I don’t know why I said that. Please don’t kill her.”

Wade’s eyebrows jumped up. “Her? Are you some kind of misogynist?” 

The spiky ball bearings started stretching into strands that had started to wrap themselves around Wade’s neck. He started to make choking sounds as Erik leaned in closer to Charles. “You and Emma don’t get along?” Erik asked Charles curiously. 

“Oh, I mean, I just met her today, I don’t—um—is he going to be alright?” Wade had fallen off the bench seat and was writhing on the floor next to them. 

Without taking his eyes off Charles, Erik waved a hand at the red-suited man on the ground. “He has a healing mutation. He’ll be fine.”

“All the same…” Charles bit his lip anxiously as it looked like the metal strips (formerly ball bearings) were cutting into Wade’s actual flesh. 

“Tell you what,” Erik said, with a smile that was far too pleasant and charming for the circumstances, “If you have another drink with me, I will let him go.”

“Yes, okay,” Charles gasped and felt relieved as the metal strands slipped off of Wade and slithered through the air towards Erik, who extended his hand as if he was welcoming some kind of flying pet. He smiled, pleased, as they slithered all around his hand and formed a glove briefly, before resuming their original shapes as three ball bearings. 

Erik lifted his gaze to Charles’ and smiled, only to notice that Charles was staring in horror at the blood left on Erik’s hand. Erik quickly put his hand next to his side, out of sight, and cleared his throat. “There we go. Everything’s fine, isn’t that right, Wade?”

“Super,” said Wade in a high-pitched whisper as he slowly got to his feet. “I’ll just leave you two kids to it. Don’t let him shoot you in the back, Blue-Eyes.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Erik said smoothly. Somehow they both had tumblers full of Scotch in front of them again. “I think you were telling me how you and Emma don’t get along.”

Charles blinked at Erik. The man was as scary as he was attractive, and being the sole focus of his attention was intense, at least. Possibly even intimidating. _All the more reason to drink,_ Charles thought, and had a slow sip of Scotch before he replied. “I’m sure I didn’t say that,” he said carefully. “However, I’m curious about how it is that you are on a first-name basis with Ms. Frost.”

A smile slowly crept across Erik’s lips. “Can’t get anything past you, can I? Emma and I are old friends. I will have to thank her for...introducing us.” 

“Yes, well, she will be very displeased with me,” Charles muttered into his tumbler, when something occurred to him. “Old friends? You and she...never…?” Charles tried to let his raised eyebrows convey the rest of his question. 

“Never what?” Erik said obliviously, smiling politely and searching Charles’ face with his eyes. 

“I mean…” Charles raised his eyebrows as high as they could possibly go and still Erik just gazed at him with an idiotic and slightly confused smile on his face. 

Charles sighed and pulled out his phone to check the time. His phone appeared to be—blank, which was very odd. Was the battery dead? Charles frowned at his phone. 

“Tell me about yourself,” Erik said earnestly. “Tell me about your mutation. Where do you live?”

Charles swallowed. He wasn’t sure if he was comfortable telling a man who had nearly killed another man in front of Charles’ eyes where he lived, even if the nigh-murderer was a gorgeous movie star. “There’s not much to tell,” he said, his mind blank. He was a little afraid he would blurt out his address.

“Well, what do you do at your job?”

His job was something he could talk about at length. “What _don’t_ I do,” Charles sighed. “I mean, I’m the head writer. Why in the world did Emma Frost send _me_ to make a job offer to a new potential cast member? I know she’s new to the job but she can’t be that incompetent, can she?” Charles shook his head ruefully, taking another sip of his Scotch. “Also, there’s the fact that I have to manage my sister’s fragile ego, among other—Oh! Did you know I end up having to finish writing nearly every sketch myself? _And_ I have to make every decision, even the stupid little ones.” Charles frowned at the table. Something was nagging at him, mentally; probably just his telepathy coming back. 

“So you work with your sister?” Erik said. “That sounds like it could be a challenge.”

“It really is,” Charles said with a sigh. He looked up at the man across from him speculatively. Erik was looking more and more attractive to him. “At least we don’t live together,” Charles said, wondering if that information would be of more than average interest to Erik. “That would be a little too much.”

“Mmm, I can imagine,” Erik agreed. His eyes had darkened with interest. “So you live alone?”

“Err...sort of,” Charles hedged. He didn’t want to think about that at the moment. “So what’s it like being a movie star?”

Erik laughed. It was charming how genuine and unaffected it was, his mouth splitting wide. “There are benefits,” he said, still amused, after he had stopped laughing. “But honestly, it’s not what I wish I was doing with my life.”

“And what’s that?” Charles asked. 

All humor left Erik’s face like it had been drained out. “Fighting for our kind,” he said, in a voice that would have been more appropriate on an orator.

Charles swallowed. “Our kind?”

Erik frowned slightly. “Mutants, Charles.”

“Oh.” Charles drank the last of his Scotch. “I thought maybe you meant people who work in entertainment. Oh, speaking of working, do you you, ah, have the time? My phone appears to have died.”

“I have time for you,” Erik said, and suddenly his seduction voice was back. In fact, Charles could clearly read his thoughts and the things he was thinking about doing to Charles, which were embarrassingly graphic. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Charles said irritably, trying to ignore the hotness creeping into his cheeks. If he could read Erik’s mind it meant his telepathy was coming back, though. He put two fingers to his temple and scanned the bar for someone who had looked at the time recently. He inhaled sharply when he realized how much time had gone by. _“Four hours?!_ We’ve been here four hours?” 

Erik frowned. “It can’t have been that long,” he said. There was some guilt creeping along the edges of Erik’s thoughts, though, and fortunately Charles’ telepathy had returned enough for him to see why. 

“You killed my phone battery,” Charles said accusingly. “Magna—lectrically. Or something like that.” He may have regained most of his telepathy, but he was still drunk. He stood up and the room tipped crazily to the side. “I have to get back! There’s no ending for the Trump sketch, not to mention I need to talk Raven into doing it, and I’m not sure if everyone got the memo about Little Vader!”

Erik stood up too, grasping Charles on his bicep to stabilize him. “Little Vader? What does that even—? You’re not really in a condition to go to work, Charles. Why don’t you let me take you home?” His mind was projecting mostly concern, but there was an undercurrent of desire.

“Oh, fuck off,” Charles said in annoyance, yanking his arm out of Erik’s grip. “I know what you are thinking. Go predator—prey on—someone else, I am a busy professional.” Charles dropped his dead phone and bent over to pick it up—and heard a sound that made his heart drop: the sound of fabric ripping. 

Aves of amusement tumbled off of Erik as he observed Charles’ predicament. “I’m sorry, what was that about being a professional?”

Charles straightened up slowly and closed his eyes. Other people in the bar were starting to notice, and he could tell that soon the whole room would. 

Looking Erik in the eye, he brought two trembling fingers to his temple and made it so that nobody (except Erik) could see his ripped pants, or remember that he had ripped them. 

Erik looked at the two men directly behind Charles who had abruptly stopped laughing. He looked at Charles speculatively and glanced around the room. “Your talent is impressive,” he said, smiling. “Almost as impressive as your ass.”

Irritation rolled through Charles and he scoffed. “Goodbye, Mr. Lehnsherr.” He took three steps towards the door and nearly tripped. It didn’t help his balance that he was keeping his hand on his temple so as to preserve his modesty. “Stupid Sarkozy and his tiny ass,” he grumbled. 

Then Erik was there beside him, one hand on his back and one of his arm, helping Charles keep his balance. “Please stop,” Charles said tiredly. He had wasted how many hours with this man?

“Please let me escort you back to your work, if you insist on going there,” Erik said. Right outside the door of the bar, Charles sighed and turned to face him. 

“It’s my fault you’re drunk,” Erik continued, his eyes supplicating. “If you get in trouble with Emma, I can explain that. I have some...influence with her.”

Charles hesitated. Getting in trouble for showing up to work drunk was not something he had seriously contemplated. The attitude towards alcohol at _The Mutant Show_ was fairly tolerant...if someone had a drink at lunch, it wasn’t _that_ big a deal. But Charles knew it was technically against NBC policy (and possibly the law?) to be drunk at work. And who knew what Emma’s perspective on it was? 

“I might be able to...keep it from her,” Charles said hesitantly. He didn’t like that idea, but he had to go back. 

Erik raised an eyebrow. “The same way you’re keeping your split pants from everyone in there?” He gestured towards the bar entrance. “Emma Frost is the most powerful telepath I’ve ever met. I don’t think you will find it easy to manipulate her.”

“She is?” Charles looked at Erik in horror. He was thinking of all the days he had hidden food stains on his clothes from colleagues, all the times he had hidden HIMSELF from his colleagues. Before _The Mutant Show_ had sapped him of his willpower, he’d had standards about what kinds of meddling in other people’s minds was inappropriate and that had slipped as his work had made more and more demands of him. 

“Do you want me to carry you there?”

Charles was snapped out of his reverie by Erik’s odd question. _”What?”_

“Well, I mean, I can fly. I can probably get you there faster than a cab.”

A cab pulled up at that moment. An idea occurred to Charles. Not a good one, but then again, he was still pretty drunk. “Piggy-back?” he said weakly. 

Erik smiled wide and turned around, facing away from Charles and crouching slightly, braced for Charles to jump on his back. Charles turned and opened the cab door. “30 Rockefeller Plaza, please hurry,” he told the taxi driver, slamming the door beside him. 

“You got it,” said the driver. The car started to pull away from the curb. Charles didn’t look to see Erik, but he did feel a burst of anger from the man he’d left on the sidewalk after a few seconds. 

Abruptly the car stopped moving. “What the—” the cabbie said from the front seat. The cab’s tires were squealing while the car stood still. 

The door next to Charles opened. “Nice try,” said Erik, sitting down next to a hastily scooting Charles. Charles felt his pants ripping more as he slid along the bench seat and gritted his teeth. 

“What the hell is going—oh _shit!_ ” the taxi driver exclaimed, as control of the car was abruptly returned to him and the taxi lurched forward. He narrowly avoided hitting another car.

Erik grinned at Charles triumphantly. Charles looked out the window and away from Erik in annoyance. “You really can’t take a hint,” he muttered. 

And then he felt...hurt, from Erik. Erik was hurt that Charles was trying to get rid of him. Charles snorted and shook his head. He put up his shields so Erik’s emotions would stop bleeding into his mind; they were distracting, and the last thing Charles needed was to feel guilty. 

“You are a movie star,” he reminded Erik, not looking him in the eye, but turning his head so that Erik knew he was being addressed. “You can have anyone you want. I don’t know why you are so set on pursuing me.”

“I’m not pursuing you,” Erik responded haughtily. “We just happened to be going in the same direction, that’s all.”

“You’re paying for the cab,” Charles snapped. 

“I think we should split it.”

Infuriating. The man was infuriating. Charles just barely managed to refrain from knocking his own head into the car door in frustration.


	3. Little Vader

The cab ride was painfully slow. They were re-routed because of some road work, and it was rush hour, and Charles anxiously watched the sky get darker and darker as they inched towards their destination. The show started at 7pm, and unfortunately the Trump sketch Charles was most worried about was up first. He wanted to know the time but he was also afraid he would scream if he opened his mouth. They were definitely getting close to 7pm, though. What had he been thinking, having a drink on a show day? And with _Erik Lehnsherr?_

He wondered if Erik could float the car above the others to get them there faster, but he refrained from asking. Erik himself seemed to be taking a nap. 

When they finally pulled up in front of the building, Charles pushed open the car door and ran. “He’ll pay!” he shouted back at the driver, catching a glimpse of Erik’s sleepy but frowning face just before the doors closed behind him. 

He went to Moira’s office first, and he knew immediately something was wrong. Her desk was clean, which never happened. Charles got a sinking feeling in his stomach as he made his way to the soundstage, where the show was actually filmed. 

When he reached the soundstage entrance, Charles glanced at the clock next to the stage monitor (the building was old enough to have actual analog clocks on the walls) and saw that it was a few minutes after 7pm. So they should be doing the Trump sketch, Charles thought. They always opened with the political stuff. 

He looked at the monitor. They were not doing the Trump sketch, unless for some reason it involved fourteen tiny stormtroopers. 

“We cut Little Vader!” he said out loud to nobody, through clenched teeth. Why hadn’t Moira told them?

He tried not to panic as he ran down the hall to the backstage area. He tried not to think about the fact that the Little Vader sketch was in even worse condition than the Trump sketch...he wasn’t even sure if any dialogue had been written. 

In fact, the more Charles thought about it, the more panicked he became. He was pretty sure that there was nothing more to the sketch than Sean Cassidy’s ~~probably pot-inspired idea~~ “Hey, what if we have a bunch of little people to dressed up like stormtroopers?” They had all laughed and Charles had forwarded the request to casting, thinking that _of course_ he could come up with something funny by the time the show rolled around…

Right as Charles opened the door to the soundstage, Erik was suddenly behind him. Charles groaned in annoyance but held the door for Erik. He ran as lightly as he could to where Moira usually stood, next to the cameraman...but it wasn’t Moira standing there with a clipboard and headphones. It was a very flustered Emma Frost. 

“Where’s Moira?” Charles hissed at her, snatching the clipboard away and scanning it. 

“I don’t know,” Emma replied, also whispering. “I fired her this morning. What happened to your pants?”

“You _fired_ her?” Charles said loudly. The crew all turned to look at him in shock.

“Can we please focus on the problem at hand?” Emma hissed back, gesturing at the stage. There was an awkward silence in the theatre as the stormtroopers milled around a tiny Darth Vader.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today,” The Vader said pompously. Charles touched his temple and read the man’s mind and realized that Little Darth Vader was fishing. He had no lines, no script, and he had been assured that cue cards would be held up for him to speak from, which were, of course, not there, because no sketch had been written. 

“Put Erik in,” Emma said frantically. 

Charles glared at Emma and wished for two seconds that he had Scott Summers’ ability to melt her with his laser eyes. The his jaw dropped as an idea occurred to him. Scott was a cast member! Maybe Charles could save the sketch yet. He mentally searched for Scott, but before he got very far, Erik was striding onto the stage.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??” Charles shrieked as quietly as possible. It came out as a high-pitched hiss. 

Once Erik was in view of the cameras, he stopped. “Hello,” he said to Little Vader, with a smirk. He stretched out his arm and the little man started rising into the air, much to his distress and the confusion of the stormtroopers surrounding him. One of them tried to catch his foot, and several of them looked around for wires. 

Raven walked up to Charles. “I’m _not_ doing the Trump sketch,” she said petulantly. 

Charles wanted to strangle her. “Clearly!” he snapped back in a stage whisper. “I need you to be Princess Leia! No time for costumes or make-up!”

Raven looked at him with round eyes. “You mean—I should—myself? Is that…”

“There’s no other choice,” Charles said desperately. He knew what her reservations were about, and it wasn’t that he didn’t share them, but his highest priority was _the show must go on,_ and he had a way to do that, and he was going to do it. Even though it might be against a certain employment law. 

His fingers were still on his temple. He sent direction to the actor playing Little Vader. _Say: “Luke, I am your—Ugh—Stop it,”_ Charles mentally directed him. 

The actor, unfortunately, was panicked and freaking out. He had only been in the air a few seconds at that point, fortunately, so he hadn’t vocalized more than some panicked yelling and swearing that would get bleeped out. That was fine for the sketch, Charles thought. But the panic he needed to soothe. _Calm your mind,_ he said telepathically, throwing in a smidge of mind-control. _I’ll give you your lines._

The man was angry about a lot of things, not the least of which was the fact that he didn’t like Charles talking to him telepathically, but he complied. “Luke, I am—your—Ugh—stop it!”

Charles turned his attention back to Raven while Vader was saying the line; every second mattered. She had transformed into a doppelganger of Carrie Fisher from the first Star Wars movie, wearing a long white dress and ridiculous brunette side-buns. “Good, but you need to wear _your_ face,” Charles whispered. “Go onstage and yell ‘Daddy!’”

Raven changed her face quickly, but stared at him. “And?” she said expectantly. 

He used mind-control to give her a nudge. _And I’ll tell you the rest on the fly!_

Raven ran onstage dramatically. “Daddy!” she cried out, clutching her chest with one hand and reaching out with the other.

Charles touched Erik’s mind and gave him his line, which he delivered without question or bitching, thankfully. “I told you to only call me that in private.”

The audience laughed, probably out of relief that something had happened more than anything else. 

_Lower Vader,_ Charles told Erik. _Slowly!_

Erik complied, which gave Charles time to tell Raven her next line and blocking. “Daddy, I wanted to introduce you to my new boyfriend, Luke!” Raven chirped. “Isn’t he dreamy?” Raven-as-Leia gazed adoringly at Erik, although internally, she was screaming at Charles. _Who the fuck is—is this ERIK LEHNSHERR? The movie star??_

Charles ignored her in favor of keeping one step ahead of the actors on the stage. 

“Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir,” Erik said calmly, as Charles telepathically fed him dialogue. “You bear a striking resemblance to, ah, someone else in my life. At least from far away.”

“Ahhh,” Vader said, nodding. He was seething with anger, but fortunately, Charles could tell he shared the same philosophy as Charles about the on-going-ness of the show. “Um, yes, well. This is a sort of—awkward development. So, uh, how long have you two been dating?”

He was supposed to sound uncomfortable and he did. Charles prayed the sketch would work even a little. It didn’t need to be the best sketch of all time. He also wished Erik wasn’t wearing a suit; it would have been a lot better if he’d been dressed like Luke Skywalker. Unfortunately, telepathic projection wouldn’t change what the home audience saw. 

“Only a few weeks, but it’s incredible how much we have in common!” Raven enthused. Charles noticed the audience was getting it. He sighed with relief. 

“Yes,” Erik said. “It’s like we could be twins. Except, of course, I’m sure we wouldn’t be kissing each other if we were twins!” Erik hesitated for the first time, looking at Raven. 

_Kiss her,_ Charles thought impatiently. _Vader will interrupt._

But when he saw what was happening onstage, Charles had to admit it was funnier than his idea. Erik and Raven were acting like two people who were trying to kiss, even though neither of them wanted to. The audience found it hilarious, fortunately. 

Charles continued directing telepathically. _Vader, turn to the camera and say: “Apparently that shrink ray was not the worst thing that can happen to a man!”_

“I will _not,_ ” the man said out loud, “....tolerate this! You are brother and sister! Stop kissing!”

That wasn’t supposed to have been his line at all. Charles cursed under his breath. _Erik, put your arm out again and lift him in the air please,_ Charles thought desperately at Erik. Erik did so without hesitation. 

And then, only because Charles was mind-controlling him, Little Vader held his arms up in a shrug. “What’s a father to do? Live from 30 Rockefeller Plaza, it’s _The Mutant Show!_ ”

Charles cued the booth to run the opening credit sequence and put his face in his hands. “I’m going to quit and move to a beautiful island somewhere,” he moaned. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Little Vader had ripped off his mask and was striding towards Charles. “I didn’t say those words! And why the hell was I floating?”

“Mr. Trask, you’re on _The Mutant Show_ ,” Emma said coolly. “How do you think those things happened?”

Trask looked at her, then at Charles, and then at Raven, who had re-assumed her typical blond form. “You _freaks_ are not allowed to use your powers for work. That’s against the law,” he said angrily. Raven gave Charles a nervous look. 

Charles opened his mouth to placate the man, but before he could speak, Emma said, “So sue us.”

“Emma!” Charles said in shock. 

Emma ignored him and turned to Erik. “Your timing was perfect,” she said with a smile. “Thank you for stepping in.”

“It was my pleasure,” Erik said smoothly, inclining his head graciously.

Trask walked away, spluttering in anger. Emma looked after him and snorted. “Humans,” she said with disgust. “I predict he’ll forget all about that.”

Charles’ jaw dropped. “Are you...saying...what I think you’re saying?” he asked slowly.

Emma gave Charles a vexed look. “Charles, don’t be so squeamish.”

“Don’t be so…” he stared at her for a long moment. “I quit,” he said softly.

“Now, now, Charles,” Emma said, looking nervously at the large red digital clock that indicated they had a little more than a minute until they were back on the air. “I understand that you are upset, but—”

“You fired Moira!” Charles burst out. “She’s one of the few people around here who _actually_ gets work done! She has four kids! You sent me out to have lunch with _that_ asshole—” he stabbed a finger in Erik’s direction “—on a day when I had two sketches to finish! You can’t just come into a job and ride rough-shod through the whole place and expect people to be happy with you!”

“Asshole?” Erik asked, looking hurt. 

“Charles?” Raven’s voice sounded tiny in the sound void after his tantrum. He turned to her and she looked like a lost child, her eyes large, her lip trembling. “Are you really quitting?”

“Your concerns are valid,” Emma said sincerely. “I’m impressed by your passion, not to mention what you did to save that skit...that was brilliant.”

Charles felt mollified by the praise. Part of him hated himself for feeling that way, but he got so little praise for his work that it felt like water to a drowning man. “Well, the show must go on,” he said diffidently. 

“Exactly.” Emma took off the headset and handed it to him. “Please, Charles. Let’s get through this, and then we can discuss it?” She looked at him with a pleading expression. 

Charles sighed heavily. With Moira gone, he was really the only person qualified and available to act as the stage manager. “Fine,” he said heavily, and snatched the headphones from her hands. 

**

The rest of the show went smoothly, although Charles had to slap himself awake a couple times. Erik and Emma had disappeared, to Charles’ relief. But at the end of the show, he saw someone walking in who made his heart sink. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Logan,” he said heavily. God, he needed to deal with this situation. 

“Hiya, Chuck,” Logan said affectionately. “I know you’re, you know, mad at me, but I also know you love extra spicy Pad Thai.”

“You brought me food?” Charles said weakly. He’d only had alcohol for lunch, and his stomach had been growling at him for hours. He immediately reassessed the conversation he’d been meaning to have with Logan. That could wait another day. 

“Yeah.” Logan handed the styrofoam container to Charles and shifted his weight from one foot to another uncomfortably. “So, uh, I haven’t exactly found another place to stay yet…”

Charles already had a mouthful of food. He groaned around his food. “Yeff, you can stay at mine. On my _couch_ ,” he emphasized, accidentally spitting out a bean sprout as he did. 

Logan grinned in relief. “Thank you, Chuckie. There’s a big storm coming in tonight, you know. I’m not easy to kill but I don’t like the idea of freezing anyway.”

Charles waved his hand as he inhaled the Pad Thai. He found an empty chair and sat in it, balancing the meal on his knees. Logan walked behind him and out his hands on Charles’ shoulders and started gently massaging. “I’ll stay on your couch if you really want, but you know I can make you feel good…”

Charles rolled his eyes. He needed to stop sleeping with Logan, but it was hard when the man always showed up when Charles was feeling weak. Charles was about to say “no” when Erik appeared, walking next to Emma. He saw Charles and Logan and his lips tightened. 

Emma’s eyebrows raised. “Who’s your friend, Charles?” 

Charles swallowed his bite and waved his hand again. “Logan. Emma, Erik.”

“Is he your masseuse?” Erik asked sharply. Charles felt surprisingly jarring waves of jealousy pouring off him. 

“Nah,” Logan said. “I’m his boyfriend. Oh, wait, I think it’s ex-boyfriend right now, isn’t it, Chuck?” 

Charles decided to ignore everyone and just continue eating his delicious Pad Thai. 

“Charles didn’t tell me he had a boyfriend when we had a drink together this afternoon,” Erik said, with a dangerous undertone in his voice.

“Well, we’re taking a break,” Logan said belligerently. “Not for long, though.”

Charles winced in anticipation of what Erik’s response would be, but there was was none. And there was no feeling coming from him, either. He looked up at Erik and then at Logan, and they were both frozen, and their minds felt exactly like what minds felt like to Charles when he ‘paused’ them...

“Emma?” he asked, looking at her. He had finished eating by then. 

Emma pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “Charles, you are a mess.”

Charles looked down at the Sarkozy suit, which now had Pad Thai stains on it. Not to mention the ass was split. “Yes,” he acknowledged wearily. 

She assessed him with her clear blue eyes. “Your _life_ is a mess. Your priorities are misplaced. You have a lot of potential, Charles, and you are wasting it.”

“So you _do_ want me to quit,” Charles said, annoyed. 

She sighed. “No, Charles. I want to mentor you.”

“Excuse me?” Charles said, offended.

“You need to learn to set your boundaries and stick to them,” Emma said. “You need to learn how to tell people ‘no’. You need to take better care of yourself. You need to stop taking those stupid suppressants.”

“Those ‘stupid suppressants’ make it so that I can do my job!” Charles said defensively. “Otherwise...you saw what happened tonight. I broke the law, and I directed Erik and Raven to do it as well. You should be reprimanding me!”

Emma waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a stupid law, Charles, and you know it. It deserves to be challenged, and I’m sure it will be. The point it, you are capable of incredible things, if you would stop letting other people hold you back.”

He snorted. “And you are going to show me how to do that.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “First lesson: negotiation. So. I want Erik Lehnsherr to join the cast.”

Charles tipped his head back and groaned. “I want you to hire Moira back,” he said after a moment.

She inclined her head. “Alright.”

Charles blinked. “And hire Logan,” he said. “He needs a job, so he can find his own place. He seems to think he can get by as a freelance salesman of Ericsson flip-phones…”

Emma pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, Charles, but you’ve had a physical relationship with Mr…?”

“Howlett,” Charles supplied. 

“...Mr. Howlett. It’s against HR policy to hire someone under those circumstances.”

“Really?” Charles said, frowning.

“Really,” she said. “But I can hire your baseline friend back. And Erik, of course.”

Charles huffed. 

Emma cocked her head at Charles. “Why are you so against adding Erik Lehnsherr to the cast?” she asked curiously.

“He’s…” Unprofessional. Infuriating. Hot as hell. “We already have Cheekbones. We don’t need another one. We should be hiring a person of color, or a disabled person.”

“Hmm.” Emma leaned back and considered him. “Are you sure this isn’t about your sister?”

“My sister? I don’t know what you are talking about.” Charles felt his heart rate speed up. 

“Your sister, the star of _The Mutant Show,_ Raven Darkholme,” she said patiently. “Adding Erik to the cast doesn’t threaten her job security, you know.”

“Maybe not her _job_ security,” Charles muttered. He sighed. He knew Raven better than anyone else, and only he knew how deep her insecurities ran. “He’s just...he’s going to complicate things.”

“Yes,” Emma acknowledged. “But complication isn’t always bad.” She paused for a moment. “Who is Cheekbones?” she asked after a moment, with a delicate frown.

Charles chuckled. “Oh, sorry. That’s what we call Scott Summers. He’s a cast member, too.” 

Emma got a strange look on her face for a moment. “Ah.” She stretched. “It’s been a long day, Charles. I’m going to unfreeze these two, and I hope you will remember the things we discussed.”

Charles almost laughed at her arrogance, but he was too tired to laugh. “Fine.”

A moment later, he felt anger pouring off Erik, directed at Logan. “Erik,” Charles said. “Thank you for—being in the show tonight. Emma and I would like for you to join the cast.”

Erik, distracted from his anger, looked at Charles. “Emma _and_ you?” he asked. 

Charles nodded tiredly. “She’ll give you the details. I just wanted to let you know that...I’m okay with it.”

Erik frowned slightly, confused, and nodded. 

“Logan,” Charles stood up with a sigh, and turned around. “Thank you for dinner. Let’s go; we need to...talk.”

Logan looked a little like a kicked puppy. He nodded, his eyes downcast. 

Charles stood up and gestured for Logan to go first. Charles had only taken a few steps when he heard a gasp behind him and turned to see the show’s winged costumer, Warren, glaring at him. 

“My Sarkozy?” he said accusingly.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Charles muttered.

Logan leaned around Charles to look at his ass. “Good thing you wore underwear,” he said with a snicker. 

“Some of us actually do that!” Charles snapped, his cheeks burning.


End file.
